


La Dolce Vita.

by morwrach



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: A bit of kissing and caressing in the kitchen!, Credence showing off his magical culinary skills!, Graves is head over heels in love, Happy Credence Barebone, Happy ending., M/M, Mutual recovery struggles, Wizarding worldbuilding - Italian magic!, Workaholic Percival Graves, domestic setting, fluff and a tiny bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 12:57:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11336004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morwrach/pseuds/morwrach
Summary: A cold night and a sunny morning. Credence makes breakfast pancakes, and Graves tells him stories of wild Italian magic!





	La Dolce Vita.

The night, poets tell us, belongs to lovers. “O wild and wondrous midnight!” wrote James Lowell. “Beloved night” pined Shelley. “Tender is the night,” declared Keats _. Perhaps the nights are only kind to poets_ , surmises Graves, walking through Central Park under the watchful gaze of the moon. The night has been anything but tender to him recently: draughts of Dreamless Sleep can’t prevent the nightmares, the memories, or the guilt. The night-time has become something to endure, a time to tire himself out with a late-night case or paperwork or long walks. He’s developed a gruff camaraderie with the janitors at MACUSA and with the aurors on call during the small hours. 

Pulling his collar up against the chilly breeze, Graves leans on the railing of the Bow bridge and looks out onto the placid stillness of the lake. In moments like this, it feels like his life has been made up of miseries of varying sizes, a suspicion validated by the cold clarity which often accompanies sadness. A font of tears wells up in his chest and baptises all his memories with sorrow. The mistakes of his youth, the unavoidable losses, the careless words spoken and received all slide by like a ticker-tape against the velvet background of the night. _What is the point of it all?_ he muses morosely, _What was the point of all that suffering?_

He walks on through the lovely, lonely park until a familiar old ache grips the underside of his knee, and putting the slightest weight on it makes his legs feel weak.

 _“When did I get so old?”_ he asks himself aloud. His words drift out into the empty sky as he apparates home.

Credence is sound asleep when he quietly opens the door of the bedroom, curled up on his side of the bed with the duvet pulled up around his ears. If he listens attentively, Graves can hear his lover’s calm, even breathing. He’s relieved that Credence is sleeping better these days, even though he can’t deny that consoling the young man through his night terrors had brought him his own sense of peace.

He casts a wordless muffling spell before divesting himself of his work suit, now lightly speckled with mud. Soundlessly summoning his nightclothes, he slips into the warm bed beside his sleeping lover. Credence’s soft black curls flow over the pillow, soft under Graves’ fingertips.

Resolved to attempt sleep, he rolls onto his back and closes his eyes, trying his best to relax his stubborn muscles. His knee throbs incessantly and his mind goes in circles around the recent Grindelwald sightings in Europe - but the bed is soft and the room is hushed. Before long Graves falls asleep listening to Credence’s gentle breathing with the cold of the night still clinging to his bones.

***

Graves is woken by a soft kiss pressed to his brow, and a gentle hand caressing his jaw.

 _“Your coffee is on the boil,_ ” says Credence’s voice quietly, and then in a tone of conspiratorial excitement whispers _“and I’m making pancakes!”_

 _“Mm,”_ Graves replies drowsily, mind half-foggy from dreams. He stretches one sleepy, bed-warmed hand out of the covers to grasp his ward and pull him into bed beside him, but Credence has already spirited himself back to the kitchen on nimble feet.

After a few minutes of his usual grumbling, Graves clambers out of bed and shrugs on his dressing gown. The distant sounds of the kettle whistling and a popular song on the gramophone suffuse gently through the open door, luring him to the kitchen with the promise of holding Credence in his arms.

His sleep-sore eyes take a moment to adjust to the bright morning light before the scene in front of him blossoms into view. Credence is making breakfast - not in his usual way, the careful, methodical no-maj way – but with magic. Wand stuck behind one elfin ear, he commands the floating ingredients and utensils with confident but careful hand gestures. Graves suspects that he is slightly showing-off, and smiles warmly at the thought. With a point of Credence’s index finger, rings of pineapple unfold themselves from their can like a string of paper dolls. He twiddles his long elegant fingers over his left shoulder and a jug of juice pours glasses of squeezed orange behind his back. With a motion of his wrist, the sizzling bacon turns itself over in the pan, but he forgoes magic to carry Graves’ steaming cup of coffee to him. Placing it reverentially into his waiting hands, Credence leans in to press a kiss to Graves’ lips; the merest wetness shared between their mouths leaving his guardian beset with longing.

 _“Morning,”_ Graves murmurs, voice husky and sleep-worn, rubbing a hand over his own jaw.

 _“Good Morning Percival,”_ Credence replies musically, stretching to gather boxes from cupboards and a glass bottle of milk from the frigidaire. 

The first burning sip of coffee tugs Graves into wakefulness. Leaning against the doorframe, he inhales deeply, and rakes his eyes appreciatively over the young man in front of him. Credence is wearing the baggy pyjamas Queenie Goldstein sewed for him, the ones with the enchanted pattern of familiars – frogs hopping and owls swooshing, and black cats stalking. They cling rather tantalisingly to the curve of his ass…

Credence uses his wand to summon little eddies of Wizarding Wheat Flour and enchanted sugar out of their packets. They wheel through the air, mixing in a cloudy tornado before settling into the big mixing bowl already filled with butter and milk. Credence bites his lip as he carefully breaks the eggs by hand, lips quirking into a smile when he manages a clean break without any shell falling into the mixture. He hums to himself musically whilst stirring the batter with a big wooden spoon, bobbing on the balls of his feet. Warm rosy sunbeams play across his beautiful face, and catch in the curls of his hair, tied back in a ponytail. He turns his head just so, and smiles at Graves in the doorway – an affectionate, devoted smile which leaves his guardian feeling stricken.

He thinks suddenly about the Credence he first met, a sickly half-shadow, a shivering beaten boy trapped under his Mother’s foot, frightened of wanting to be touched. But here Credence stands, flesh and blood, unblemished and uninjured – and impossibly beautiful, making breakfast in his kitchen. Graves’ heart beats insistently, in his chest – I love you – I love you – I love you – I love you, but his mouth cannot give voice to the thoughts. Mere words seem insufficient. He longs to press grateful kisses everywhere – to the bow of Credence’s lips, the conch of his ear, to his bare feet.

It’s the work of a moment to place the coffee cup down on the kitchen table and to gather Credence into his arms. He buries his face into that gorgeous juncture of Credence’s jaw and neck to press hot kisses and murmur words made for whispering - _“my wonder, my treasure, my dearest, my darling.”_ Credence gasps happily and his saucy fingertips slip past the folds of Graves’ dressing gown and weave into his chest hair. Graves laves his tongue over Credence’s neck and bites down firmly, eliciting a satisfyingly ragged moan which echoes pleasantly around the room. Breakfast be damned, he could do this for hours.

 _“Percy!”_ Credence whines, _“the pancakes!”_

 _“Go on then love,”_ he says huskily, kissing Credence on the cheek. _“Work your culinary magic.”_

In an effort to keep his hands off his delectable young man, Graves fetches more coffee and busies himself laying the table for breakfast whilst Credence transfers the batter to the griddle with a teaspoon. Soon enough, Credence’s favourite plate is filled with a stack of tiny silver dollar pancakes, and the delicious buttery smell fills the kitchen.

 _“I think I’ve done it right this time,”_ Credence says with a tone of disbelief.

Graves can’t help smiling, thinking of Credence a few months ago – sat forlornly on Queenie’s sofa with his head in floury hands, heatedly repeating _“I can’t do it, I can’t do it”_ Mastery has now replaced futility.

 _“Hm, I’ll be the judge of that”_ he says sternly, stealing the topmost pancake disc from the stack with an air of smooth authority. He pops it swiftly into his mouth and hums contentedly.

 _“Delicious darling. Your best yet,”_ he pronounces, reaching out to steal another. Credence bats his hand away, frowning at him with an expression of mock-disapproval. A twitch of a smile breaks his play-acting.

Graves affects a tone of authority before gesturing to the stack and saying _“I was merely lightening the load. Any more weight and you’ll have the leaning tower of Pisa on your hands, and then you’ll have to find yourself those wizened old Italian wizards to prop it up for you”_

 _“I wonder if Giacomo is still alive,”_ Graves wonders half to himself, sipping at his coffee.

 _“Is it really?”_ Credence interjects, pausing over the griddle, _“held up by magic?”_

 _“Most certainly!”_ Graves responds, in a professorial tone, _“One old family of Pisa, the Petroccis are responsible for holding up the tower and replenishing the charms which are an old family recipe that they refuse to share.”_

Credence finishes transferring the last few pancakes from the griddle and settles down opposite him across the breakfast table, placing Graves’ tower of pancakes in front of him. He tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear and sips some tea, avidly listening to Graves’ story.

 _“Of course, there have been many attempts to remove their charms and topple the tower,”_ Graves continues, casting his memory back to his World History lessons. _“In the 13th century, when the state of Genoa was at war with Pisa…”_ He pauses for a moment. _“ wizard and no-maj have always been very close in Italy, but they were even closer in those days”_ he adds as an aside. _“Anyway, during the war the famous Genoese wizard Fossati was sent to dislodge the Petrocci’s charms.”_ He pauses again for dramatic effect, taking another sip of coffee.

Credence is utterly absorbed, leaning his chin on his hand, his own little tower of syrupy pancakes forgotten.

 _“And?”_ he prompts urgently and excitedly, eyes bright.

 _“Well, he didn’t manage to topple the tower, but he was a clever wizard. Remembering the eruption of Vesuvius, he cast tantallegra on the marble – and the tower danced a saltarello all around the piazza!”_ Graves makes his fingers dance across the table.

Credence gasps, laughing and kicking him under the table. _“You’re teasing me!”_ he exclaims, his expression fond.

 _“I am absolutely serious!”_ Graves exclaims, throwing his hands up. “ _The tower leapt and hopped all over the piazza before old Ludovico Petrocci rode over on his ancient donkey to enchant it back into position!”_

 _“And the tower never moved again?”_ Credence asks, almost sadly, smiling widely.

 _“Never again,”_ replies the older wizard smoothly, _“those Italian wizards are especially talented at charms to keep things erect.”_ He raises one thick eyebrow, and Credence splutters, laughing and blushing. The sight is intoxicating. Who can really blame Graves for wanting to prolong it?

 _“The most notorious piece of Italian magic is of course ‘the Casanova charm,’”_ Graves deepens his voice, _“We had terrible trouble with it when I was new at MACUSA –“_

 _“W-what does it do?”_ Credence asks, still blushing. A lovely smile plays across his lips.

 _“I rather think you already know, mischief,”_ Graves says fondly, reaching across to lightly poke Credence’s nose. _“It makes a person lusty and inexhaustible for hours, transforms the shyest milksop into a BEARCAT!”_

He growls, just to make Credence laugh, and then flush a darker shade of pink. Graves smiles back, before tucking into his breakfast, revelling in crispy bacon. Credence is becoming a fantastic cook.

 _“What was your trouble with it, at MACUSA?”_ asks Credence, ever attentive to stories of Graves’ professional life. He nibbles a pancake in tiny bites.

 _“Aha, well…”_ Graves begins, with a slow, wry smile. _“I was in the Misuse of Magic Office back then, the first post of my career – and some shmuck thought they’d put me on a difficult case of ‘immigrant magic’”_ He sips some juice. _“A dozen American wizards had got the Casanova charm from the Sicilians in Little Italy. They pronounced the Italian wrong – and got themselves stuck in a very sticky situation…”_

Credence is bright red, failing to suppress his laughter. Graves considers tickling him.

 _“It wasn’t so funny at the time!”_ he exclaims, _“Imagine me there, 23 years old and on the first case of my career..”_ Graves stands up and strikes a solemn expression, emulating himself in his early 20s. He quirks an eyebrow and points a finger in Credence’s direction. “ _Tell me Director, have you been playing with any foreign sex magic recently? No? How’s your Italian?”_

Credence is hiccupping with laughter, tears streaming down his cheeks.

 _“- and all this whilst the old swell stands there with a huge tent in his pants!”_ Graves barks, thrusting his hips forward for comedic emphasis. Credence is in fits of unsuppressable giggles by now, peals of laughter rolling around the apartment. Graves finds himself laughing too, sitting heavily back down and taking up his coffee.

Suddenly, everything feels fraught and fragile and miraculous. _Credence looks beautiful like this_ , he thinks, _Mercy Lewis, how did I get so lucky?_ He swallows hard around a lump in his throat. _All the suffering has been worth it for this_ , he thinks to himself. _It’s all been worth it._

**Author's Note:**

> (Yes, they definitely experimented with the Casanova charm after breakfast!) <3
> 
> This is part of the Guess Who? challenge where everyone posts anonymously and you're invited to guess who wrote it!  
> A list of contributors is [here](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Anonymous_Fic_Game/people), so...guess who? :D


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